Kennedy had evidently satisfied himself on one point. If we were to get into that chamber we must do it ourselves, and we must do it quickly.
From the package which he carried he pulled out a stubby little cylinder, perhaps eighteen inches long, very heavy, with a short stump of a lever projecting from one side. Between the stonework of a chimney and the barred door he laid it horizontally, jamming in some pieces of wood to wedge it tighter.
Then he began to pump on the handle vigorously. The almost impregnable door seemed slowly to bulge. Still there was no sign of life from within. Had the bomb-maker left before we arrived?
“This is my scientific sledge-hammer,” panted Kennedy, as he worked the little lever backward and forward more quickly—“a hydraulic ram. There is no swinging of axes or wielding of crowbars necessary in breaking down an obstruction like this, nowadays. Such things are obsolete. This little jimmy, if you want to call it that, has a power of ten tons. That ought to be enough.”
It seemed as if the door were slowly being crushed in before the irresistible ten-ton punch of the hydraulic ram.
Kennedy stopped. Evidently he did not dare to crush the door in altogether. Quickly he released the ram and placed it vertically. Under the now-yawning door jamb he inserted a powerful claw of the ram and again he began to work the handle.
A moment later the powerful door buckled, and Kennedy deftly swung it outward so that it fell with a crash on the cellar floor.
As the noise reverberated, there came a sound of a muttered curse from the cavern. Some one was there.
We pressed forward.
On the floor, in the weird glare of the little furnace, lay a man and a woman, the light playing over their ghastly, set features.